


I know the taste of your name

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant in that there are offscreen deaths and Sadness, Denial of Feelings, During Canon, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends With Benefits, Lust at First Sight, M/M, More Like Coworkers with Benefits, Non-Linear Narrative, Sexual Content, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: They are neither friends nor lovers, but with the memory of Sergeant Tozer in his arms and in his bed, Little grapples with unexpected heartbreak.
Relationships: Edward Little/Solomon Tozer
Comments: 16
Kudos: 27
Collections: Lieutenant and Sergeant Gift Exchange, The Terror Bingo





	I know the taste of your name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [borislegasov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/borislegasov/gifts).



“Edward?”

A stab, not a question.

“That’s your name, isn’t it?”

As though he had not growled the same into Little’s ear, into his shoulder, into the patch of skin where his hair curls on the nape of his neck. It is only a name, but he feels stripped naked now that Tozer uses it as a bludgeon.

Perhaps it is betrayal which stings the most; damn the expedition, damn the captain, damn the admiralty and the north-west-fucking passage.

He cannot understand the rest that Tozer says, not through the ringing in his ears, and when he is struck from behind, he hears no more.

“Shall I call you _lieutenant_? Or do you prefer something else altogether?”

Little detects the amusement in Tozer’s voice; feels the shape of his smile where lays a kiss on his spine, ending at the dimples in his back. Little hides his burning face in the crook of his arm.

“That’s not an answer.”

Tozer pulls him up, gently pinching his chin between forefinger and thumb. Little keeps his gaze on the flickering candlelight on his desk. Easier to watch the shadows dance on the whitewashed hull of his cabin than to face the man behind him.

“Just _sir_ tonight?”

He kisses the side of Little’s mouth, timing it with a roll of his hips. Little gasps, eyes fluttering shut as his arms threaten to collapse beneath him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Tozer says, seemingly content to maintain the one-sided conversation. “I’ll call you what I like then.”

He tilts his chin to properly kiss him before snaking a hand around Little’s front, giving him a strong tug. He swallows every sound that slips from Little, the gasps and moans replacing any real words tonight.

They share dogwatches most often. Little comes to recognize Tozer even when he is hidden under the bulky shape of slops, with the obvious red stripe around his cap and the blinding _X_ of his crossband. Little learns his gait, the angle of his shoulders, the shape of his eyes above his muffler.

He never personally assigns Tozer, but the sergeant makes an appearance each time Little walks the deck himself; and how many nights has Little spent awake in the small hours wondering if Tozer feels the same magnetic pull when they circle each other as two great bodies pulled and pushed by forces unseen?

Tozer approaches him where he has fitted himself by the bowsprit. Both of them squint at the sun near the horizon as it blazes a dim orange, the telltale sundog framing it like a halo.

“A fine evening, sir,” Tozer says.

“Yes,” Little agrees.

They watch in silence until the sun disappears, leaving nothing but the glow of dusk. Little wishes he could find the eloquence—the bravery—to say more, but once the orange in the sky fades to a dark blue, Tozer salutes and walks away.

The first time they share a bed—though all their brief _times_ have a queer sensation of discovery, of testing boundaries and navigating uncharted waters—they do not fuck. It’s rather innocent: sharing a tent while on the same hunting party their first winter on Beechey.

Their group does not stray far from the main camp, but after a day of unsuccessful hunting, the men’s spirits are low. None have the desire to hike the distance back to camp, and so they pitch their tents near the ice on a flat strip of rocky land.

They huddle close to the fire, sharing a meager meal, the bitter cold worming its way through their coats and slops.

“Stars are bright,” is all that is said, spoken from Tozer with his mouth full of Goldner’s mystery meat.

Seaman Farr only grunts, but Little casts his eyes heavenward, noting Polaris out of habit where she glitters behind the weaving aurora. Were it not so damned cold, Little might even think the sky beautiful.

When the fire dies down, they retire to the tents. In the small tent Little shares with Tozer, the bedroll takes up most of the floor, and once Little has removed his boots, he taps their soles on the ground just outside the flap, careful to keep any dirt and snow off the blankets.

He and Tozer are silent they remove their outerwear, keeping most of their clothing on. They slide under the blankets, each hissing at the chill and muttering apologies when their feet brush. They lie back to back, stiff and uncomfortable. Little feels a rock jutting into his side through the canvas floor and blanket, and he shifts, apologizing again when his elbow jabs into Tozer’s back.

Tozer doesn’t answer, but some of the discomfort melts away as the bed is warmed from their shared body heat. While nowhere near the comfort of the ship’s heated interior, Little finds the presence of another man in his bed a luxury he has desperately missed in his lonely berth.

He listens to Tozer breathe, wondering if he sleeps yet.

“Do you think we’ll be successful?” he asks, keeping his voice low and hoping the men in the neighboring tent cannot hear him.

Tozer doesn’t answer at first, and Little assumes he must already be asleep until he clears his throat and says, “With what, sir?”

Little isn’t sure what he meant: hunting caribou, finding the North-west Passage, or keeping their men healthy and alive through it all.

With a sigh, he rolls over. In the darkness of the tent, he doesn’t see Tozer, but he likes to imagine that he can make out his head of hair, his shoulders under the blanket. Lost as he is in his thoughts, he winces when Tozer reaches through the darkness for him. Where he was aiming—his shoulder, his face—Little can’t say. Tozer’s hand lands by his ear before he moves it to his shoulder.

Should Little talk of his anxieties, already so fraught this early in their voyage? Should he seek this man’s assurance when it is he who should be galvanizing the men?

He swallows every urge to confess like nails, and Tozer sighs, patting him very lightly before withdrawing his hand.

“I suppose so,” he says, turning away, the belated _sir_ lost somewhere in the shifting blankets and the whispering wind outside the tent.

The first time they properly fuck, there is no bed. They meet each other, standing in a cramped storeroom in the hold, the engine loud enough to mask their harsh breathing and the clink of buttons. The wail from the engine makes them brave, turns them reckless.

It is just after a shared dogwatch, and they are not missed.

Tozer jams the butt of his rifle against the door, the closest they have to a lock. They have time enough for Little to remove his trousers, for Tozer to strip to his shirt, braces dangling at his sides. Little’s breath catches in his throat when Tozer hoists him against the wall. His bare hands on Little’s thighs are rough, strong.

“Here,” he says, guiding his legs, “around my waist. Yeah, like that.”

Sweat slides along the inside of his knees where they stick to the bare stretch of skin along Tozer’s hips. Tozer grips the curve of his backside for better leverage. He shoves forward, fucking into Little with such brutal efficiency that he loses himself, forgets everything from earlier that day, forgets every sensation but the scrape of Tozer’s beard against his forehead, the sting from where his nails bite into his skin, the burn of his length plunging into him.

From Tozer, there is a constant tumble of words—most of them lost to Little—but occasionally through the red-heat haze of arousal he hears the _darlings,_ the _dear hearts, yes, you take it so well, aye like that yes._ The affection feels undeserved as though Little has stolen the words; that their sweetness are not meant for him but spoken from a memory of better times, a warmer room, a softer lover.

Sentiments of his own gather like clouds in the distance, but he bites his tongue, turning his face away.

A single, sharp gasp, “Edward—!” And it is over.

Tozer pulls him close, panting into his hair, and the pleasurable burn between Little’s legs turns to an ache. They separate, dressing in silence. Beneath the grumbling engine, Little hears the creaking timber, the bell tolling on deck. He prepares himself for the hurried walk back to his cabin, both of them planning to make a mad dash to opposite ends of the ship, climbing up different ladders at different times.

Before Little can leave, Tozer stops him with a curled knuckle at his chin. The lantern is behind him. Little cannot see his face.

“What is it?” he asks.

Instead of answering, Tozer kisses him. Little tenses, hands instinctively going to Tozer’s waist. The kiss itself does not last long. Tozer’s nose bumps against Little’s cheek when he pulls away. Another touch of his knuckle to Little’s chin, and he leaves.

Little waits a moment alone in the lanternlight. He lays his palm over his mouth, whispers _Solomon_ like a secret he doesn’t trust himself to keep. A moment more, and he regains enough strength in his legs to return to the lower deck.

The repurposed bomb vessel is compact, sturdy. Her name is _Terror,_ companion to _Erebus,_ and the newly commissioned Lieutenant Little tries to shake the idea that such names carry weight like omens.

Commander Fitzjames walks him through the decks, showing him the reinforced hull, the acquired train engine.

“And this here,” he says, placing a wide palm on the engine’s iron side, “will make all the difference. She may be quiet now, but when the beast awakens…” He makes a splitting gesture with both hands, accompanied by a cracking sound effect. “No more ice. We’ll be unstoppable, I say.”

Little returns Fitzjames’s smile, his nerves smoothed by the man’s optimism. He is in sharp contrast to Little’s commanding officer Captain Crozier who sullenly remained on deck. Little hopes that their relationship will improve once the voyage begins.

When Fitzjames leaves him to his own devices, Little is unsure what to do. The time between his commissions feels like a gaping hole in his clothes, making him clumsy and awkward. The men carrying provisions on board are gracious every time Little ducks out of their way, mumbling his apologies, but after one too many encounters where he stumbles over his own feet, he makes his escape to the upper deck.

He sees no sign of his fellow officers—Fitzjames is on the pier, gesturing as he talks with the Marine sergeant—but that is a blessing in disguise. He will have time enough to become acquainted with the other lieutenants and the mates. For now, he wants to familiarize himself with the ship herself and the idea of going North.

He ends up on the quarterdeck, watching the other moored ships where they bob gently on the water. The salt is thick enough in the air that the imagines he could taste it if he opened his mouth, but he resists the childish urge. The only allowance he gives himself is closing his eyes and lifting his chin to the unseasonably warm breeze bouncing off the sea.

“Has it been a while, sir?”

Little starts, his hands clenching on the rail.

Behind him stands the sergeant, staring out at the port rather than at him. Little stamps down his embarrassment, keeping his voice level.

“For what exactly?”

“Sailing.” The sergeant almost smirks, but he purses his lips in time to stop it. “You seem a bit out of your element, sir.”

Little bristles. The nerve of this man! He should tell him off, remind him who the superior officer here is, but anger shrivels in the presence of truth. He turns his glare to the sea, swallowing his discomfort.

“I mean no offense, sir,” the sergeant says as he moves closer. “You’ll get your sea legs soon enough. We all will.”

With a sniff, Little turns back to him. “Your name and rank? I’ve not received the muster yet.”

His cool tone makes the sergeant snap to attention.

“Marines, sir. Sergeant Solomon Tozer of _Terror_.”

“Do you make it a habit of walking the quarterdeck uninvited?”

Tozer blinks. “No, sir, I don’t.”

“Then I suggest you find somewhere else to be. Surely, there’s something that needs to be carried below deck.”

The silence that follows is long, heavy. Little is unaccustomed yet to his lieutenancy, and he worries distantly that he has made a mistake in offending the sergeant before _Terror_ has even set sail.

But there is that hint of a smirk again, and Little is tempted the slap it off the man.

“Indeed there might be. Commander Fitzjames suggested I help you move your belongings onboard.” He meets Little’s eyes. “If you need the assistance, sir.”

Little’s mouth hangs open, the familiar ice of shame slithering through his stomach. A rash part of him wants to refuse. Instead, he nods.

“In that case, thank you. I wouldn’t mind the help.” He raps his knuckles once on the rail, before walking briskly toward the gangplank. “I’d rather get it done.”

He doesn’t look behind himself to check whether Tozer follows, but he hears his steady footfalls behind him.

And he’d rather not see the smug victory on Sergeant Tozer’s face.

“You’ve done this before,” Tozer says with a grin.

Little scoffs, rolling his eyes when Tozer props himself onto an elbow beside his head.

“Was he also a Marine? An officer? Maybe one of those prim stewards.”

“You speak nonsense.” Little pulls away and fixes his trousers, digging into his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe the evidence of their meeting from his hand. He sighs in annoyance when he is unsuccessful, and Tozer offers his own. Little hesitates a second before taking it, pointing his gaze to the floor. “Thank you.”

“As endearing as I find your feigned shyness, sir—”

Little glares at him, and he gets a widened smile in return.

“I much prefer when you’re priggish. You’re far too handsome to keep your chin down all the time.”

Little ignores how his heart beats faster. “I prefer when you keep your opinions to yourself, sergeant.”

“I’m sure you do,” Tozer says, He nabs the handkerchief from Little’s hands to wipe his stomach clean before folding the soiled sides together, stashing it in his pocket. “Are we doing this again?”

Little doesn’t say. The question hangs as they part ways.

Throughout the proceedings in that drafty tent at Terror Camp, Little cannot bring himself look at the two men standing opposite Captain Crozier. Outside their walls of canvas, the carpenter’s hammer and saw is loud enough to make Little’s head throb. The court martial itself is hardly more than a farce. A technicality, a performance, a point made specifically to Lieutenant Little as punishment for his poor judgment. The shame on his shoulders is nearly enough to crush him.

Hickey, he understands, but Tozer? The sergeant acted under his orders and with his cooperation, and now he will watch him hang for it.

“We’ll make this quick,” Crozier says with a haggard sigh. “The last thing I want is more dead men, but this must be done.”

“Surely this is all some misunderstanding,” Hickey starts.

Fitzjames tiredly interrupts, “Be quiet. You’ll have your turn to speak, Mr. Hickey.”

Little makes the mistake of raising his eyes then. Tozer is staring directly at him, ignoring Hickey at his side or Crozier where he sits on a crate between them. There is anger on his face, like a rope coiled too tight, ready to snap at the barest provocation.

Crozier lists the offenses—murder, theft, sedition—and all Little can think is how wildly unfair it is that Tozer should hang alongside Hickey, that a flogging wouldn’t be enough, that Hickey’s ceremonial end must include this man.

He almost says as much to Crozier, but his is not a voice the captain trusts right now. Little knows it. Tozer knows it. And there is no love lost between himself and the sergeant. The anger is palpable enough that Little feels it stabbing him in the chest. Tozer wouldn’t thank him if he managed to spare him the gallows.

Realizing this, Little lowers his eyes to the ground again.

On Beechey, the hunting parties return with disappointment in their packs where they had hoped to bring back the meat of a caribou or a bear. After giving his report to Captain Crozier, Little seeks out Tozer. He hopes to catch him alone; a rare thing now that they are back at the main camp.

He finds him seated in one of the Marines’ tents with the myriad parts of his rifle disassembled and arranged on the bedroll before him, his only light the flickering flame of a candle precariously balanced on a smooth stone beside him. He looks up when he hears the tent flap opening.

“Lieutenant Little?”

“I wanted to apologize, sergeant,” he says in lieu of a greeting. “Please don’t stand. I’ll make this brief.”

“At least come inside. It’s freezing out there.”

Not that the tent is much warmer, but Little appreciates the added privacy as he pulls the canvas shut behind himself.

“I’m afraid we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot—” stated as he dances around the bedroll, careful to not disturb Tozer’s work as he finds a place to crouch.

Tozer snorts as he continues cleaning the rifle’s barrel.

“And that’s it? You came to tell me what I already know?”

Little blinks, his shoulders droop. “Yes, I suppose I did.” Silence. “Well, sergeant, I’ll leave you to it. Excuse me.”

His back and knees complain as he stands, and he ducks his head when it brushes the top of the tent. Before he opens the flap again, Tozer sets aside the rifle with a loud sigh.

“I accept your apology, lieutenant. Sit down before you sprain something.”

Little bites the retort from his tongue, murmuring his thanks when Tozer clears a spot for him on the bedroll. His trousers bunch around his boots, and he stretches his legs out once he’s seated to keep the dirt off the blanket.

Tozer digs through a bag by Little’s leg. Little tenses, shifting slightly away.

“Do you smoke, lieutenant?” Without waiting for an answer, Tozer pulls out a pipe and tobacco. “I don’t have much, but it’s enough to share. Though I will say, I don’t smoke with people who call me sergeant. That goes for my boys, and for you as well.”

The challenge in Tozer’s voice is offset by the twinkle in his eye.

“What do I call you then?”

“My name’s a good start,” Tozer says, voice muffled from where he holds the stem of the pipe between his teeth. “Tozer’s fine, if using my Christian name puts you in a bind.”

The way he drawls _Christian_ , followed by the flick of his wrist when he extinguishes the match, should not have Little’s heart racing, but he keeps his hand steady as he accepts the pipe, ignoring how his skin burns where Tozer’s fingers brushes against it.

“And Little’s fine for me.”

He only sees Tozer’s grin in his periphery as his eyes flit down to the pipe as he holds, the stem already warm from Tozer’s tongue.

He calls him Solomon once. Quietly. Embarrassingly. Uttered into the side of his hand. As Tozer removes himself from inside Little, as he kisses a trail down his flank and his hip, as he pauses between Little’s legs to finish him off.

Little arches beneath him, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. He covers his face with both his hands, and he hopes that Tozer does not hear him chanting his name like a prayer.

He wakes with the rocky ground digging into his cheek, smoke and fog clogging the air. Blood tangles with the sweat in his hair, and when he staggers to his feet, his knees buckle, the ground twisting and sprawling beneath him.

When they all reconvene, they lick their wounds, count their dead. Fitzjames is also unsteady on his feet, and Little watches Crozier wrap an arm around his waist and lead him away. They pass Bridgens fixing a crying man’s arm whose limb dangles uselessly at his side, both of them aware that the wound will be infected by evening.

Even Jopson is shaken, tired beneath his usual calm. He and Little count what’s left of their food, their guns.

“There’s been no sign of either Lieutenant Hodgson or Doctor Goodsir,” Jopson tells him.

“No bodies?” Little asks, hating the tremor in his voice.

Jopson pauses, his tongue moving over his teeth behind his lips. “None yet.”

Little nods, the pain in his head making it hard to think. Though the pain is nothing compared to the yawning emptiness stretching inside him, somewhere beneath his ribs.

In another time, here is how they might do things differently:

Little would approach Tozer directly, introducing himself as the man first, lieutenant second. They would become dear friends and confidantes, befitting their roles on the ship. He would not concern himself with rumors of fraternization, not when their friendship boosts the morale of the ship, helps the men trust their superiors as they sail closer to the Arctic. 

When they reach the Passage, it is summer and midday, the sun high above their heads. The men cheer when they receive the signal from _Erebus._ Even Captain Crozier is smiling near the helm, Mr. Blanky laughing with joy beside him. Tozer detaches himself from the Marines to join Little, not so close as to raise questions, but close enough that Little may reach to touch his shoulder.

They are quiet—perhaps the dream is such that Little cannot imagine the words—but Tozer is smiling at him.

“When we get home,” Little might eventually say, “I would like…”

Tozer interrupts, “We still have to cross the Pacific. Home is far away.”

Another Marine calls for Tozer, but he spares a wink for Little when he goes. He knows Tozer is right. They have time, and for once, Little would not find it suffocating.

Perhaps theirs is not a happy end, or perhaps it is not an end at all.

Little isn’t sure what to make of the victories following the seemingly endless failures, after they had lost Captain Crozier, after rescue seemed impossible.

First, it was the slim chance of whalers finding them near a break in the ice south of King William Land. They left the crew with provisions and the promise that they would return with more food and more help to transport them all to the ship.

Next was the unexpected arrival of the Lady Silence, Captain Crozier, and Sergeant Tozer. The men on watch had seen them from miles out and shouted himself hoarse from excitement as he alerted the camp.

There were so few of them left that seeing their captain had many in tears. Such was the joy at being reunited with Crozier that no one paid Tozer any mind nor were any questions asked when the Lady Silence took her leave, pulling her small sledge behind her. Little keeps to the outside of camp, too nervous to show his face to Crozier, and when Silence passes him, their eyes meet. He can’t decipher her expression—sorrow, resignation, relief—but she gives him a grimacing smile, and he nods. He watches her leave the same way she came.

“Shame she’s going.”

Little tenses at Tozer’s voice. He grips the band of his rifle tighter, and he swallows, bracing himself before he turns.

Tozer looks much like the captain; sunburnt, bearded, clothes a mix of Navy slops and Netsilik furs. Tozer doesn’t meet his eyes. He watches the Lady Silence as she grows smaller on the horizon before fully disappearing over the hill.

“Crozier won’t be none too happy,” Tozer continues, “to see her go. But I reckon she wants to be with her people. Don’t blame her for that.”

Tozer still won’t look at Little, so Little looks at him. Sees familiarity in that single dimple beside his mouth when he frowns, the fingers tapping restlessly at his hip the closest thing Tozer has to a tell. He looks well, healthy even, like a man who has evaded death more than once and no longer bemoans the life he has.

Behind him, Little sees Crozier consoling two of the men, Chambers and Best looks like. He sighs.

“I should go back.”

Tozer stops him, grabbing him by the arm.

“Edward,” he says.

Little waits for Tozer to continue, but he says nothing more. As though his name alone could hold some explanation, some power, an apology. He stares hard at Little’s chest, and Little notes the creases in the corner of his eyes which he didn’t have when they first met. Tozer’s thumb starts to move in small circles over Little forearm, and with that, the years melt away.

“Has it been a while?” Little asks.

Tozer frowns at him as though he’s sprouted a second head. “For what?”

“Making amends,” Little says, looking the cloudless sky. “Because you’re terrible at it.”

Something between a scoff and a laugh bursts from Tozer. Little covers his hand with his, holding it in place. It is an intimacy that he has never risked outside of his cramped berth, a tent, an empty storeroom.

He has lived too long and too hard to no longer take such risks.

Crozier sees him across the way. He doesn’t wave, merely nods, but something like relief washes over Little. He lets go of Tozer’s arm, pulling the rifle tight over his shoulder.

“We can talk later, Solomon,” he says, the name ending with a slight inflection, a question rather than a command.

“Of course, Edward,” answered like a sergeant to his lieutenant.

A beginning then, Little thinks as he walks away, glancing back once to Tozer where is silhouetted by the setting sun, a glowing specter for the future rather than the past.

**Author's Note:**

> For borislegasov! I hope you enjoyed. I did a mishmash of several of your prompts, namely the sharing a bed, fuck first; feelings later, and a little bit of enemies to lovers. And because I am a SAP, they got a happy ending. Or as happy as it could be, all things considered.
> 
> also this is a bingo fill for the prompt **dogwatch** :)


End file.
